BOSSIER ISSUE 6 | SPRING 2019
Resident Creator Projects Laurie-Maude Chenard.......23-25 Caleigh Andrews.................38-39 Maya Silardi.........................42-44 Mackenzie River Foy................55
Content Warning: Mental Health
Content Warning: Sexual Assault
Editor-in-Chief: Aires Miranda-Antonio Creative Director: Olivia Jimenez Art Director: Caleigh Andrews Business Manager: Elaine Liu Head of Marketing: Charlotte BĂśhning Head of Outreach: Isabelle Groenewegen Head of People: Aurore Ndayishimiye Layout Director: Chloe Suzuki Managing Editor: Aden Choate Editors: Sienna Brancato, Samantha Freedman, Eliza Phillips, Maya Silardi, Natalie Chaudhuri, Leina Hsu, Teak Hodge, Renae Salunga, Taylor Kahn-Perry Layout Designers: Stephanie Leow, May Tan, Alex Smalto, Toella Pliakas, Geritza Carrasco, Gabriela Gura, Claudia Chen
Resident Creators: Clara de Solages, Delia West, Laurie-Maude Chenard, Rachel Harris, Sebastian Bedoya Visual Content Creators: Mikko CastaĂąo + Maya Archer Resident Illustrator: Layla Gorgoni + Kimberly Jin Outreach Coordinators: Lauryn Reynolds + Natalie Kim Newsletter Curators: Narisa Buranasiri + Fran Mbonglou Marketing Curators: Anita Kelava, Nyana Morgan, Sydne Scales Social Media: Chelsea Luo + Gina Kang Cover: Isabelle Groenewegen Font: Garamond (body), Fat Frank (title) Contributors:
Jabari Butler, Dan Rojas, Emily Shambaugh, Hanna Chan, Ariel Kurtz, Mayeesha Galiba, Theron Pickett, Tarina Touret, Audrey Eto, Sydne te Wildt, Shraeya Madhu, Kelly Goonan, Ninna del Cid, Jade Ferguson, Emily Quatroche, Gwendolyn Viles, Emily Arnold, Ivana Gabriele-Smith, Nickie Demakos, Alexa Lemoine, Sophie Septoff, Naomi Taher, S.L., Melissa Morgan, Stella Cai, Emma Burns, Jaden Kielty, Isabella Cantillano-Sanchez, Rebecca Raslowsky, Allison Herr, Natalia Perkins, Alexandra Enright, Paige Raborn, Alexandra Schlesinger, Gary Simons, Esthela Gonzalez, Sylvia Epps, Elisabeth Cregan, Allison Herr The opinions expressed in Bossier Magazine do not necessarily represent the views of Georgetwon University unless specifically stated. All content is submitted freely by individuals and may not express the views of the Bossier Magazine staff.
See all Issue 6 content at bossiermag.com! Like our Facebook page and follow our Instagram at @bossiermag
yearbook notes | 2 intro | 3 masthead | 4 letters from the editors | 6 playlist | 7 heartache | 8-9 Pour Some Ennui On Me | 10-13 Joy, Power, Unafraid | 14-15 adrift | 16-19 notes to self | 18-23 dreaming | 24-27 loss + losing it | 28-34 Finding Power in Choice | 35-37 nostalgic moment | 38-41 home? | 42-47 The Luxury of Feminine Hygenine | 48-49 discovering vs disovery | 50-56 HOROSCOPES | 57-58 quote page | 58 yearbook notes | 59
See all content from the contributors on our online edition at bossiermag.com
Resident Creator Projects
Content Warning: Mental Health
Content Warning: Sexual Assault
Welcome. Welcome back. Welcome home. Here are some secrets/reminders/notes/disclaimers you should know 1. You are currently holding onto a piece of magic. This ‘zine seems like anything but sensible, especially on this campus + yet, here we are. Magic is intrinsic to art. It’s about belief, the belief in that which you cannot see but know you feel — The magic you currently hold in your hands is our truth, our words, our craft. The strength + bravery it takes to do so is what makes Bossier magic. The magic is inside each page, so handle with care and with respect. 2. You are apart of this magic + this community. From the second you flipped open this ‘zine, whether immediately jumping in, skimming pages, or for whatever reason reading this first, you stepped into a community that has been awaiting your arrival. However you interact with Bossier, you automatically become a part of the B Team. No membership card necessary, however, we do have five collectible items now. 3. Your work is valued. While some attempt to dismiss Bossier as “just an art ‘zine,” consider the place of art in healing spaces, in justice movements, and in the process of reclaiming spaces. This semester the B Team showed out, not just in submissions + hard work, but in their commitment to making this campus better. Celebrate your magic + celebrate yourself. 4. Prioritize your joy. Ignore all the damn binaries, fuck capitalism + screw institutions that keep you from happiness. Enjoy-
Dear Bossier, Oh, Bossier, I don’t know where to begin. I feel like I shouldn’t be allowed to be writing this, but all I can say is that in this past semester and these past three years, you have given me more than I can count. You’ve been there in the hardest times of my life. This is an extra special issue, though, my sweet Bossier, because your creators are moving on past the gates of 37th & O. Part of the reason you’ve been so special to me is because you have introduced me to some of the most beautiful minds I have ever met. Michelle, Tiff, Dan, Liz, you have been the greatest role models and friends I have had at Georgetown; thank you. This semester, like most, has been a rocky one. There were moments when I feared for Bossier, moments when I thought the organization that made this school home would start to fizzle. It didn’t. What never faltered was what Bossier’s pages have meant since it began. Most people don’t know this, but, if you’ve submitted, there’s a large chance I know you. You might not know me, but I, at least a teeny tiny amount, know you. I have been given access to parts of your brain, your soul, your fears, your dreams, your loves and losses and life. This is what Bossier has given me most of all—the understanding of our complexity, vulnerability, strength, and beauty as a student body. Contributors, thank you all for sharing your work and for being vulnerable. I know we’ve only barely started, but I am in awe of where we have gone. Readers, thank you for sharing in this moment and sustaining us. Bossier, thank you for existing. All my love,
Aires Miranda-Amor (COL ‘21) Editor-in-Chief 6
Olivia Jimenez (COL ‘20) Creative Director
I’m Going to Tell You Everything, Since You Never Ask 1
I’m sorry to be bitter but I can’t shake the taste off my tongue that the sweetness I once saw in you is artificial, unhealthy— my mom warned me to stay away from this. I guess I never paid attention when she told me that everything is better in moderation. Why else would I expect that, even after all this time, your tastebuds wouldn’t grow tired of me?
My hands shake and my breathing is uneven, choppy waves crashing against my throat as I bury my head in my pillow. I can feel your presence like a current pulling me out to sea, the ocean I once loved so much is now my worst panic attack this year. I cannot outrun my heart it is racing so hard. I wish I could get myself together.
The winter cold does not bother me today, my blood is boiling so hot. I scream Coward into the air and hope the frigid wind whips it against your face. It’s one of those Don’t Look At Me days, I Hope You’re As Unhappy As I Am weeks. Resentment blankets everything in my wake like frost.
I am fragile, and I hate myself for it. I hate how the tears that I swallow burn the back of my throat, how my head spins in circles around you and taunts me like a broken record: nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing. I fall asleep to this soundtrack, to the reel of every single moment since I met you—I pause in pain every time I realize I went wrong. Stupid, stupid, stupid girl. It was my fault.
Sunlight streaks across my face, cupping my cheeks and planting kisses on my forehead like you once used to do. But these hands are divine, they show me only Love, and you are not a God but a human who also makes mistakes. I bathe in this warmth, and forgiveness washes over me like holy water.
by Samantha Freedman
7 Sometimes, I see us as a specimen, turn us over in my head and examine our ailment. Is this what we are, something to be eradicated? A syndrome to which the only remedy is erasure? I feel unsure of myself, inexperienced; I don’t know the right way to heal. I just wish it were true what they say about time—I think all my wounds are still open.
I come to terms with myself in the bathtub today. The longer I soak, the fainter your fingerprints become, and as I slide slowly underwater, I promise not to come up for air until I love myself again. After this, I light candles in my bedroom, and I imagine myself drifting up towards the ceiling like the smoke that wafts out from the flickering flames. One day, I’ll be so far away from here that the remnants of my unhappiness will have turned to barren ash. Can you feel me disappearing?
water’s of Her by Jabari Butler
do you know the Girl that controls waters She is a water-bender. She holds floods with Her eyelids And within Her legs, oceans with depths of no end —remember when you could call on Her as poseidon open Her gates, flood Her face dip into Her ocean, creating unfamiliar bodies of Her water? did u know now that She is a fountain now? and passerby’s stop to peer into Her forms seeing the inflated view of their self in Her beauty. tossing to Her, their hopes and dreams attempting to be in Her flow of good fortune.
aghst r t n o C h g i H by Emily Shambau
The feeling was ignoring the fact that I hate burning bubbles but needed the water. Was so thirsty but the citrus Polar helped me stay in those fabric confines, those tangles of long limbs. Looking out the window brought me back to red velvet seats, in an auditorium with dim lighting, and the feeling when the Coke commercial came on because we were just watching snow and you were so warm. The main feature though! it was your touch, the way our noses brushed, the accidental! slight! swipe/flutter! but no! the main event was staring, the searching for the personal without words. The desire to know all of you in the 10 hours where i knew all i know of you, the searching for moments and glances and signals that reminded me of the night before. Of walking through a frat (progressive one though) house dazed and essentially nude. it was 3:30 a.m. and it seemed this was going one way. 12
Stepping in, now I feel that you chuckled, but maybe you didn’t you were wearing flannel pj’s and i was in my calvins. dived into the divan that i called home for a few hours. I wanted to restrain myself there, so i wouldn’t be able to leave, it was no use i had to leave but i tried to think i wouldn’t ever and using every part to tastefully cover myself, so you wouldn’t see that i was just in the calvins again Trapped, of my own volition, in the plush and we were trapped into immediate conversation with a sense of captivation, that wrapped me up more than the blanket did i try to replicate that, those laughs with someone that, if i were standing, would’ve brought me to my knees. 5:00 a.m. and we tried and 45 minutes later, I fell asleep, and woken again by a grip, a trap you set that i fell into, wildly again 8:30 a.m. I shifted and you responded, or so you say — and i’m sorry for waking you i think, but not — your lips parted and when usually i would smell cigarettes instead i felt quicksilver — fast and glimmery —- but too much, and there was too much, it could hurt, and it did
As God Watched
by Dan Rojas
Definitely not sorry, we woke and we went with an encore of entangled arms and biting lips then we fell asleep and then it was 10:00 a.m., your alarm was set for 11:34 a.m., i remember because it was so particular. 1:34, an hour and 34 minutes. just the time for a full-length feature but there were moving pictures, i remember those scenes most clearly your eyes were still and clear and radiant and startled me yet again. your hairs were light and fluttered against me, just like our noses.
RacbyhEmeilly Shambaugh so we just lay there and shifted and attempted to find comfort, it was successful. but there were only 72/54/47, I don’t know what was left. we looked out the window and to the left of the president’s house was jesus on a candle, is he God or is God God? he was there the whole time, he’s lucky he doesn’t have to leave. we’re texting and now its been 20,35,47,68 between mine and yours. I turn and see my desk and then i turn and see my wall and it’s been 24 hours, how many movies is that but i turn and see the dark, i’m not in the red velvet chairs, i’m not even on the Megabus riding back. I’m here and i see light hair and i flutter again but those eyes aren’t right I know I won’t hear a laugh that fills my thoughts. he’s a candle but he doesn’t watch the snow, no he’s lucky because he sees your eyes every day. no i’m lucky. because i got your touches/brushes/swipes/glances/you/flutters. Had but still got. 13
The Luxury of Feminine Hygiene In this unconventional “fashion shoot,” I aim to raise awareness about the tampon tax by portraying feminine hygiene products as luxury goods, as that is what they are deemed in most U.S. states. Tampons and pads are subject to value-added tax, unlike the tax exemption status granted to other products considered medically necessary. The tampon tax affects women, particularly women of color, who are already negatively impacted by the gender wage gap. It is part of a wider phenomenon, the “pink tax,” which specifically targets women by marking the price of “female” products higher than the “male” equivalent of those products.
“Tampons and pads are necessary items that half the population must acquire a dozen times a year for about 40 years of their lives. They are not optional.” -Maya Salam, Gender Reporter, NYT
“Basically we are being taxed for being women.” -Christina Garcia, CA Assemblymember
By Laurie-Maude Chenard, Resident Creator Models: Rachel Harris, Chelsea Luo, Caitlin Peng, and Aurore Ndayishimiye
A reason only 9 states have eliminated the tampon tax is because in most cases, menstruation is thought of as a taboo subject and many women feel as if talking about it will make others feel uncomfortable. On top of that, “institutions of power are male-dominated. [Men] are not thinking about it, or they’re afraid to approach it” (Garcia). My photos purposely aestheticize feminine care products and periods to visually show how failing to talk about the topic distances us from the material reality and lived experience women face every day.
“When you say you’re for ‘menstrual equity,’ it means you’re for educational equity, workplace equity, and health equity.” -Jennifer Weiss-Wolf, Author of 2017 book “Periods Gone Public”
Mulholland Drive Sunsets on the Road to Puntaneras Itâ€™s 6:30 pm and the sky is exploding and my cheek is rattling against a bus window. Night creeps up on me at the same time every single day of the year here, and usually, I hate itâ€”I hate how the darkness engulfs everything so quickly, so early on. But tonight is different. Tonight, the orange is forming puddles on the shiny white seats tops, and the red is slivering through her curls like a serpent. There is yellow pooling on his cheek and dripping down his jawline, and he is a mutant; half boy, half sun. Tonight is special, I think, I can feel it. I can feel the bus engine thrumming beneath the soles of my sandals, a steady heartbeat bringing me slowly back to life. My eyes are not empty now, but filled with fire, and as I peer past the glass at the houses and the people who blur together in a cloud of color, I revel in the speed with which they are whizzing through the air. I wonder how they are able to pass me by so quickly, because it surely cannot be me who is moving, not when I want my whole world to linger in this moment. The city is being flooded now, the metal rooftops falling victim to a tidal wave of pink. She wiggles her toes under the black strap of her sandals and he pushes his glasses up on his nose, and I wonder if they too are seeing the chunks of sunlight that are setting fire to the fields and turning the mountains black with ash. As I close my eyes, I feel a newfound closeness, imagining myself becoming the fiery serpent getting tangled in her hair, the drops of honey trickling down his face, and the ocean of sunlight in the empty seat next to me. I sink, and sink, and sink in this, and here is how I would like to die, drowning in this sea of happiness. by Samantha Freedman
Sunset on the Road to Puntarenas Mulholland Drive by Layla Gorgoni
Seasons of Queer by Hanna Chan
10/12/18 I think about How I don’t like the way it curves It doesn’t tickle my inner thighs Or my heart I thought I always needed it Because everyone was supposed to need it But now I lay [an empty vessel] Down my head And wait for the panic to set in. 2/18/19 When I pulled out of the ground A lone beetroot, Bleeding red and round in the oh-so-satisfying, swirly way, I said “You don’t really know how to garden, little human, but I guess it’s time to— ask my heart if it is whole. look at my arms the way someone else might, olive branches beneath a purple sky. feel my own shame, bursting at the seams. unlearn the learned. let myself try to sew my little heartstrings back up; to mend.” That summer, I danced in my underwear in the kitchen with my beetroots. “They can survive frost and freezing temperatures,” said the Old Farmer’s Almanac. Summer came and went, and breathed into late fall. I held my dearest red, spherical friends until winter (and my usual seasonal depression) passed. Now it is almost March. I lived a whole year in the 28 days of February. I still dance in my underwear, In the kitchen, With my beetroots.
by Aden Choate
I. to say I failed, that is walked out and into the chill ? how should I know where I was w belo ets stre the women march in traffic is halted. den watermarked newspapers of bur . ters gut al stic my curl and float in in er loit s erer and paper-bagged me the chill of the bus stops of empty freedom, asking why. and what of the invisible? tend they suffer, it isn’t just us, as we to believe— y the weight of the words we carr remains to be seen.
II. I want our masses to cal l to fat cat politicians and their faceless comp anions locked and hidden in great halls from the avenues of public thought. I want them to know that my body is my own, that we—my sisters and my brothers— will not go quietly at the first resistance, for our strength is in our number.
IV. our faces bec ome one, sh arpening in We are all h dissent ere tough as gu ts m from last nig oon-eyed girls sleepy ht’s dancing real men advocates of a new age ladies of the canyon children run ning wild hemp-scente d hippies, ve terans of an Flares and n old war o sh forgotten par oes, wine drunkenness on k benches, se cret joints rolled to war m numbed fing smoked on musty bathro ers and om couches it tastes swee t as we slip beneath the lull of the b lue and the bird s sing a song deep in our bones
III. I want to rise up over the black thinness of the city at night, I want to proclaim in the markets and restaurants and paper lantern light the time is now and it has chosen us time flutters and ebbs I am with you head down in the chill of Motel 6 nightmares, coat hangers hooked and ready as powdered donut lips tremble thick and supple rubber band snapping wrist the threads pull me back
e leave after V. t the mark w u o d ab lk ta l ds of painte they’l nset on hoo o r le st u h g youn rust urned kisses that b the spiteful ly, d tangerine illuminating d darkness an te il st g in m consu e dreams brink of tim rode on the s es n d il w when e and asleep on th not remain id d d rl y o it w il the f possib mornings o blossoming
“Guns Down” by Izzy Groenewegen
by Caleigh Andrews
The Aestheticism of Feminist Poetry The fish sink, the birds fall from the sky, the moon hides, and the flowers shy away from the beauty of the woman, as a Chinese idiom recalls. But should this be the way the woman is made to feel: in every form fantastical, unnervingly wondrous, as though the northern lights? Is there not a fleetingness to that ethereality, with the woman existing as a by-product of said supernatural force rather than the sole emitter of it? I pose these questions with a sort of unease, but not hostility. I often come across poetry written by young women that speaks of romance in terms of starlight and fog, and womanhood in terms of rivers and earth—and with these poems comes a concerning airiness. That is not to dismiss the entire Romantic era, in which nature imagery is used to evoke strong emotions. -the poetry made sense in the time period, why are we bringing it back Now, I wonder if the Romantic era’s modern repackaging is a means of conflating femininity with emotion, and in turn, a lack of rationalism. That being said, I am a young woman myself and have read and written my fair share of syrupy poetry. My apprehension boils down to my own grappling with femininity, especially in the context of art. Consider male poets like Keats, who have portrayed women like “fairy’s children,” and male directors like Zach Braff, who have commercialized the Manic Pixie Dream Girl archetype. In and of themselves, lightness and playfulness are not dangerous, but how can we be sure that we as women poets are not simply playing into the boxes of femininity that male creators have set for us? In A Vindication of the Rights of Women (1792), Mary Wollstonecraft observes that the way women are taught is intended to produce an appearance of refinement as opposed to a depth of understanding, in other words, “manners before morals.” The woman is expected to be a virtuoso of music, dancing, and literature, all of which, in Wollstonecraft’s opinion, produce a “susceptibility of heart, delicacy of sentiment, and refinement of taste [that are] almost synonymous with epithets of weakness.” Contextually, her piece was written against the background of the French Revolution. Nonetheless, it is still applicable to today’s age, where aestheticism can override substance, and many women are damned to the position of “muse”—a position not rejected strongly enough, and perhaps not rejected at all. Since presenting this case, I have come to realize that this argument establishes a hierarchy between women who write with emotions and women who write with logic. Certain structures and tones that we associate with logicality are inherently phallocentric, and have been used as a means to delegitimize the works of non-male, non-cisgender, and non-Anglo-Saxon artists. Having been a critic of “Instagram poets” such as Rupi Kaur, I see now how her minimalistic and emotional style may be a product of her experience as a woman of color, and how my criticism may originate from a biased understanding of what poetry should look like. Certainly, my intention is not to expand the category of “male” to include cogent female creators and exclude the rest. Poetry—a means for women to become curators and a method by which they are suffocatingly curated. A powerful tool never to be used to dissolve the bonds of female solidarity, especially by women themselves. I recognize that there is a potency in the prettiness of art; I believe that potency can coexist with, and perhaps elevate, our responsibility as female artists to eliminate the archaic standards for what is and isn’t art. And that can only be done when our creations, no matter sentimental or methodical, originate from our genuine experience of womanhood, these creations themselves testaments to unabashed femininity.
by Leina Hsu
“relevance” by Olivia Jimenez
A CONFESSIONAL: on BEING ANGRY BY MAYA SILARDI
Content Warning: Sexual Assault
I’ve fallen accustomed to settling into calmness. To swallowing slowly, and letting myself softly whisper words laced with neutrality. I’ve become more comfortable in my vulnerability. It wasn’t always this way. I cry a lot, mostly alone, and have been teaching myself each day to replace anger with anguish, to engage in reason instead of rage. I have learned to process the world intellectually. Soften the blows of trauma with the pages of hooks and Lorde. Find solace in academic spaces that allow me to digest wounds from afar. Examine hegemony with the protective limits of logic. I am drunk on theory. Addicted to its intoxicating quality. I love the way it smooths my rough edges with the words of the wise. How it blends my pain into theirs. How, with every sip, I am able to drown myself in frameworks and fairy tales. I savor each gulp. Greedily. But I am so angry. I have been for a while. And each day as I try to exchange fury for forgetfulness, I feel it build. It tightens violently in my chest, cranks more and more until I am being choked by my own hands. I am so angry. I am so angry at him for ravaging my bodily greedily. For hungrily gripping my waist as though I were inanimate, as though I wasn’t there at all. I am so angry he moves freely through the world, as I lug each pound of him every time I think too hard about intimacy. I am so angry that I can feel his hands on each ounce of skin that is supposed to rest peacefully on my hip bones. I hate how he penetrates time and follows me year after year. How my worth is buried in the cracking white house I will never find. How my body will never be my own again. I am angry. I wish I could nestle my head in sorrow forever. It is easy. But I fear if I do not confront my anger soon, I will suffocate.
23 “haze iii” by Caleigh Andrews
headspace by Toella Pliakas In my mind, there are towns. There are rolling hills patched intermittently with spots of brown grass. There are sleepy beaches with white sands that sound like white noise tapes. There are cityscapes with skyscrapers that scratch the underside of God’s living room floor. When you built your first home in my mind, I was annoyed. You were an inconvenience, An ugly property in a well developed world. When your property started expanding, I felt bad for you. When you began to take up towns, states, countries in my mind, I began to get angry at your imperial expansion. Why couldn’t I contain you? I had tried everything, Hadn’t I? Nothing could put an end to your dominion. I felt shame. Eventually, I thought of the Greeks, And the Romans, and the Egyptians, and the Brits, And I remember that empires are temporary.
A Familiar Weight by Eliza Dunni Phillips On the days when I can’t bear to look in the mirror, I wear my robe as an excuse. The full length of its purple body covers me, leaving only my ankles and feet exposed. Thick, and one size too big, it dulls the curves of my hips and my thighs and my chest until there’s nothing really left to look at. Sometimes, when I’m really still, I almost can’t feel her. Or rather, with time, I forget what it is like not to wear her weight. When things gets like this, she can keep me in bed for days. Flecks of dried acrylic paint spot her right sleeve, a reminder of that one day in the summer when I left my bed. I won that day. But most of the time, she does. Most of the time, I find myself caught in her cushioned clutches on a Tuesday that is suddenly a Sunday. As I start to feel stickiness, she insists it is just warmth. So I lay there, frozen still, telling myself that this familiar weight is comfort and that this comfort feels good.
“Re dC loth ” by
Lay la G or
I walked by a body of water yesterday; it was the ocean. I thought about how we are sharing the same ocean, even though we are far away from each other. I wanted to sit by it, but I didnâ€™t have time because I was running late. You remind me of the ocean: The quiet in and out of the waves, like the stableness of your breath that keeps my lungs standing. Your arms encompass the ocean: the ocean makes up most of the world and you make up most of mine. The fact that we share the same ocean is helping me to remind myself that we are still close. by Ariel Kurtz
DERNIER CRI NOTES IN RHYME A rainbow tie. A ship that knows. Want wheat or rye? Rips that grow.
Wine that runs. Four giant mice. Three sheepish nuns. Too tasty rice. A happy knee. A wild laptop. An ugly bee. A closed-up shop. Once too meta. Twice too cold. 3x feta. Some old brown mold. Across the span. Imply the change. Grease the pan. Hens free range. Brains are plastic. Her boobs are hot. Touch fantastic. Leaves that rot. Emotion centers. Beauty robbed.
A cat has entered. Clouds will sob.
High-waisted genes. Soy milk or cow? Sure what it means. Planes fly now. Hamper too empty. Quiet’s too loud. I think that’s plenty. Ducks in a round. Orchids react. Hands go under. Joy for a snack. Adult wonder. Snowflake children. Run-away thoughts. Penicillin. Plant-based draught. Infinite faith. Smiles that shine. Pay for an eighth. The kiwi’s divine. Think of the road. Please mind the rain. An angry toad. Stay insane. by Gwendolyn Viles
27 by Charlotte Boehning
Compilations of Grief by Mayeesha Galiba “everyone handles grief differently” handling grief sounds so strange to me don’t worry, i’ll handle this this task this project this spill on the kitchen floor slipping under my feet i’ll handle this all business, no worries assurance, no reservations rip anthony bourdain, by the way, i think about him a lot maybe he felt he had handled his grief but would the world view the loss of him as just another task, project, spill on the kitchen floor slipping under our feet? i think about that a lot I think about you a lot and you and you and you and you the words might sound the same but a homophone is just that it sounds the same but it’s different, different, different if grief is supposed to land on my heart in perfectly measured slices i don’t understand why my mouth is still flooded to the brim with devastation before the next morsel is forced upon me i can’t chew that fast my teeth are shattering against the bits that harden within seconds if not swallowed whole brittle broken barbs in a mouth that used to say breathe baby breathe i ride the grief like waves under a surfboard except i never learned to swim so i never learned to surf so i don’t even manage to stand up before another flush takes me down and I’m used to the burning of the salt and the loosening of body tired of fighting fight or flight just keep swimming just keep sinking because maybe once i hit the ocean floor the waves can’t reach me anymore i’m sorry to the tired girl in the tired mirror i’m sorry that your fatigue goes so far beyond what a mediocre night’s sleep can fix
haze (i) by Caleigh Andrews
MANIFESTO OF AN ANGRY BLACK WOMAN by Theron Pickett
Angry. “Having a strong feeling of or showing annoyance, displeasure, or hostility” You might be angry when you walk all the way to the library and forget the one textbook you needed to study or when you forget what you were about to say. You might be angry when you drive all the way to McDonalds to get a McFlurry and the ice cream machine is down or when you stub your toe on a chair leg. You might be angry when someone ignores you, lies to you, or criticizes you. This is a normal reaction for anyone regardless of gender or color. People experience anger at moments, but that does not mean they are angry all the time. So, this leaves me to pose the question why are things different for black women? Why are we always labeled angry. I am not angry. This is my face. I am simply thinking and I am not thinking anything negative about you. Do not project your assumptions onto me. Just because I did not laugh at your joke or did not smile doesn’t mean I’m angry or that I think I am better than you. Let me be. When I speak up for myself or share my opinion it does not mean that I am angry. I can disagree with you without being mad. I can stand up for myself without losing control of my emotions. I am not mad, angry, upset, or out of control and whatever you do DO NOT describe me as sassy. This is an insult whether you want to acknowledge it or not. Why does it matter to you whether I am angry or not? I have the right to be just like you do. We are tired of hiding our emotions in order to escape your unfair labels. Have you ever stopped to wonder why you always think black women are angry? Maybe because you give us so many things to be angry about. When you tell me constantly via media that my beauty is always less than my white counterparts. When I worry that my brother, father, or cousins might be caught up a system that does not treat all equally or fairly. When even if you are educated and black you still have to prove that you are an American or qualified or equal? You blame black mothers raising their kids on their own for their predicament and then stereotype them as welfare queens. Sounds like a fair thing for black women to be mad about if you ask me. Maybe we should work on fixing these injustices. Society should stop labeling black women who are educated or well-spoken or who hold leadership roles as angry. What is making black women mad is that fact that we are continuously labeled as angry which is just another way for society to ignore our voices. Be afraid America because now we really are angry.
“Brokenness” by Allison Enright
on perpetual sadness by Renae Salunga
there is an emptiness they do not talk about — not sadness, nor anger but the exhaustion to even endure such it is the hollowness that’s found home in your stomach, like a graveyard of butterflies that exists solely to remind you of a time you knew what it was like to feel
“Breaking the Surface” by Allison Enright
Faces of Color by Delia West, Resident Creator
by Sebastian Bedoya
“Now, it’s more acceptable to be non-normative (whatever that means), and it’s cool to look however you look as long as you embrace it. I used to only think my hair was beautiful when it resembled some celebrity’s I knew, but now it’s cool because it’s mine.”
“I personally feel more comfortable shaving. I dislike when racial differences are not taken into account in anti-shaving movements because white people’s body hair isn’t thick or course, but when I don’t shave, it’s very noticeable.”
“In dance, is my hair distracting you from the lines I create? But also, it is a part of me so why would it distract? No one can tell what my body needs to look like when I’m dancing for them.”
“I was told I was lucky because my body hair was less visible.”
“Facial hair, and beards specifically, are seen as more masculine, and nose rings are traditionally more feminine-- I like how the two compliment each other, the subtle juxtaposition.”
“Sex-ed could do a better job teaching that there are various ways to be hygienic and maintain your body.”
Finding Power in Choice
“Body hair can be fun like the hair on your head.”
“People don’t even think about the stigmatization of body hair; they’re I was 8 when I first noticed the hair on my upper lip as I was obnoxiously mouthing just programmed to Camp Rock songs in my mirror, 11 when my mother pointed out the hair under my “My hair feels very automatically shave.” arms when I was wearing my “peace, love, dogs” rainbow tank top en route to a playdate, 13 womanly. My hair when I begged my mom to let me shave my legs for my Bat Mitzvah (we settled on Nair), and shows that I’ve been “I enjoy wearing 16 when I went through various rounds of laser hair removal to remove the hair on my upper here for a while; I tube tops, and lip (a highly anticipated birthday gift). have matured.” I often feel the need to shave my My relationship with my body hair is just about as consistent as SaxaNet’s functionality. I’m not “Why do I feel armpit hair.” exactly sure when I consciously decided to stop removing my body hair in its entirety, but what I self conscious raising my hand do know is that the brand new razor sitting idly in my bathroom cabinet signifies a non-binding, “Most men shave individualistic choice-- a choice in which I derive power. if I haven’t everyday in my shaved?” family.” Although the glares, taunts, and internalized societal norms pertaining to my body hair are still prevalent in my third year of not shaving, I have come to find comfortability and security in “I tend to remove “I used to be my personal gender performance. For me, my femininity does not entail reverting back to my really insecure hair in places prepubescent body. It took me a while to get here, though. Even when I started growing out about my body where it is not my hair, I had difficulty reconciling the idea of being both fat and hairy--embodying two nonhair, but now I as common, like normative and traditionally undesirable physicalities. don’t care and it sideburns, and I really doesn’t matter enjoy sharing my With the help of some beautiful people, I wanted this project to highlight the value of at all.” tactics with other individuality in self expression. I wished to showcase how people’s varying identities people of color who influence their decision to keep, remove, or alter their body hair and both normalize “I never really got to wish to do the same.” and validate those decisions. Although I still have hesitancy wearing strapless shaving my arm hair and shirts to parties or confidently pulling off a bathing suit without shaving, I’m glad I didn’t.” “I tried not shaving for some I am comforted by the fact that others find power in claiming what time and I just didn’t like it.” is theirs, too. “My courage and comfortability with my body hair differs in the “My mom knew I was going to have communities I’m present in.” a lot to deal with being one of the only by Rachel Harris black girls at school, so she dealt with facial “I shaved because I thought I had to, not because hair maintenance early, like 3rd or 4th grade I wanted to.” early.” “There’s a reason for this hair on my body.”
“Standards change according to what men want, and women have been “It doesn’t make any sense that I’d leave school to have my face numbed changing to subscribe to that.” and get my facial hair removed while simultaneously crying from pain.” “Everyone has a right to take care of their body hair as they please.” “My beard is my identifying factor of my appearance, and for me, that’s neither positive nor negative.”
“I do like the hair on my head, but I like it much better since I chose what to do with it.” “Why do male partners get to prefer anything about my body?”
to: my mother i see the sky in you –also the sea i’ve always painted you BLUE. well, it’s your favorite color, right? it’s also the color of your eyes –i’ve always believed your soul was peeking blue like resilient waves or strong snow-capped mountains reflecting the sky. so, i guess i’ve always painted your soul BLUE because you have taught me strength + kindness + grace; how can i thank you? maybe, too, because you feel blue or, to me, you seem blue blue with nostalgia and with worry for your little daughter who gave you quite the scare mom, i like to imagine how you lived your past life past life before we were around before you were mom i like to think you did. when i am here, i remember: you cut your fingers often when chopping garlic and you remain steadfast on the crossword and sodoku and you push yourself on that spin bike and you like to read outside–i guess, like me, you like fresh air– and i remember that it’s hard to be away like this… do you remember when you went out to dinner and i would cry and rage and lament, shaken to the core of my little toddler body by your absence? once the babysitter, patient and amused, tucked me under your own covers and played a movie for me to calm down. i feel similar often and i fall into stories like i did back then to avoid missing you and everyone so hard. i also remember: you’ll always be my mother and i always your daughter and, for that reason, i know it is okay.
by Olivia Jimenez
Swimming Pool My older sister got smaller the summer before eighth grade. I knew because I heard people talk about it. I couldn’t have known by looking at her. I was ten. I didn’t know where to look. I didn’t know how bodies worked yet, that they could lengthen and curve and stretch and expand. I didn’t know they could shrink. My only experiences with growth were the marks on the wall where my father marked my height each time I thought my gaze felt higher. I didn’t know that people could feel separate from their skin. Summer in Charleston meant heat. The kind that makes your insides boil. The entire city was a fever dream. Bodies red from the sunlight slogged forward, heavy through the thick and humid air. We swam that summer. Perhaps we thought that the chill of the water would wake us, that we would emerge from practice each day light and full of air. I suppose now that the pool is where it happened, where my sister first tried to shed the edges of herself. I suppose it was a game she had learned from my mother. I spent the mornings at the pool completing drills nobody had the heart to tell me I simply could not do. I splashed around in the water like something wild, as if I had never quite learned that my body parts were all connected, unsure how my legs and arms and back were supposed to push me in any sort of coherent direction. I can still feel how cold the water was, the sharpness of it, my bones airborne beneath me, my mind miles ahead of my body, running fast and loose and clumsy like it always has. In the far lane, my sister swam laps with the older kids. Her strokes were clean. The water was perfectly still, save for the routine disruptions of her limbs propelling her torso forward and the turning of her head above the surface for breath. While I have never seen my mother swim before, I am certain she glides through the water like this, as steady and sure as the way she taught me to breathe when I get nervous. My sister swam before she ever walked. My mother spent her pregnancy in the pool, until the day my sister was born, until the day her tiny self braved contact with the earth and the air and the faces of people she had never before seen. I like to imagine it—the months of my mother underwater, the heartbeat of my sister right there with her, the two of them sprouting like a field of wildflowers pushing through soil in the spring. The two of them welcoming expanse. The two of them slicing through water for the sheer enjoyment of it, for the rush of travel and distance and the good kind of exhaustion that lets you drift into the deepest of sleep come nighttime. My mother floating on her back, her eyes glazed shut, the sun warming her entire body. Her hands light on her belly, the one season I’m certain that she welcomed growth, the one time she never doubted that growth meant life.
by Taylor Kahn-Perry
On the Potential of Island Water by Alexa Lemoine I had a tongue like a palm frond for the whole five days I visited the Dominican Republic. It had been, almost exactly, seven years since I had last visited. Then, I had been just fifteen, unsteadily embracing what was the tender time before I could call myself a woman. I still didn’t feel like I could, even after I had shed my teenage skin and adopted that of someone who was supposed to feel older. The apartment in which which I had spent so many summers had remained largely unchanged, which filled me with an intoxicating nostalgia and a profound sense of unease. Faced with the passage of time, I began to realize how little had changed. Or rather, how much had changed and my reluctance to even notice even that. For the entirety of my five-day visit the short five days of my stay, I didn’t so much as walk but drift through scenes from before: . Tthe mall, the beach, the winding streets and dangerous motorcyclists. The pillows I slept with smelled the same, and I could still pinpoint where my grandmother’s church was. My head was filled with the pointed accent I had tried to conceal for so long. My Americanness mingled with the island, coloring the roof of my mouth with the lush green outside. Despite my first-generation status, I don’t quite feel like Dominican enough. Within the grasp of the Caribbean and its salt, I feel like I should be more American. My tongue gives me away, my mannerisms. People coming into the elevator would give their polite and curt “Buenas,” and I would only know to respond with the same when I was speaking to their backs. There is this one notion of personhood that I still don’t quite don’t understand. It keeps me up at night wondering if I’m deciding of it myself, or if it’s something that just happens to me, gifted from up above like a chalice. If I drink from it, I’ll magically know in which direction to throw my body. It’ll be an infinity disguised as wine. Have I become a person in the amount of times I’ve cradled my adult body in my mom’s lap to cry big, heaving sobs? Is each wretch a kind of salt water birth? Or when I once laid in bed with an ex in the morning feeling like an unfurled comma? When I remember words in Spanish during a conversation and say them just for the pleasure of it? Is my whole being resting within those in-betweens? Anxiety seems to preoccupy itself with the things it cannot solve. Shouldn’t my body existing in my city be enough to classify me as there? Does the threat of my brownness make me any more seen? Is my diploma, my job, my writing, or even my misspelled Spanish, a marker all markers of occupied space? At the bottom of it all, am I still a mama’s girl, small and tripping over the words with which to exonerate myself? I crave something that I can’t even visualize or describe. A motorcyclist was hit on our way to the beach. I tried not to look even though there wasn’t much blood, just the fanfare of catastrophe. I felt like that; my body colliding with the potentiality and burden of self-realization was intimate like the bottom of a bird’s wing.
“Walking Along” by Layla Gorgoni
September, 3 Generations Later by Natalia Perkins
You are the American Dream. Sweet girl, strong girl, can’t do nothing wrong girl– They laid brick and mortar down for you. Tough girl, working girl, that feeling still lurking girl– A sea of hands are holding you up– There’s nothing you can’t do. Smart girl, short girl, just the right sort girl– Look where you are– and it only took them eighty-two years. Blue girl, witty girl, makin’ it in the city girl– You can spot a Monet from a mile away. Your own past decays, torn up by a tangled family tree. Pretty girl, big girl, dragging on a cig’ girl– Don’t wake them up.
Photo by Audrey Etro
joy There is a reason why women have been portrayed nude in art since the dawn of time: our bodies have come to represent sexual objects. If we quickly glance at ourselves nude in the mirror, itâ€™s because we donâ€™t believe our bodies are sexy enough. This project began as a way to represent physical and emotional scars beautifully, but the experience led to a much more joyful product than anticipated. Each of these three strong and intelligent women exposed themselves at their most vulnerable. I hope that I was able to capture each of their strength, uniqueness, beauty and more importantly, their character. Our bodies are not sexual objects; they represent our strengths and passions. They tell the story of our pain and insecurities, as well as our love and resilience. by Clara De Solages, Resident Creator 44
r no on
i n Luj a n C any on by Melissa Morgan
by olivia jimenez
ey Etro by Audr ontrast window c
by Tarina Touret
I existed between sand and air. My earth was the sand. She ate me as I fell through, an effect of the loss I felt that summer. A full entity of non-existence, she had to learn to love the pain She became obsessed with the thrill of it, which overtook every inch of her body. Drained in a pool of burgundy nails, she convinced herself that you could save her. She wished at that moment that she was a man and when she realized she wasnâ€™t, she became seduced by the norm of you. Her covert exploitation of self caused an effusion of an, at first, unbearable being and then, lightness it was then that the era of ethereal self-love began. And in the end, her suspension through rings of flames taught her to eat the air and swallow the earth. 50
by sydney te wildt
Content Warning: Eating Disorder
I’ve started crying in public this semester. It feels foreign and shameful to be publicly seen as less than perfect. It detracts from the persona that I have tried to craft over the past 3 years -- that I’m happy, healthy, and fully recovered from my eating disorder.
It is safe to feel like I have it all together. I posted meals on Instagram to proclaim that I loved food again, I hung out with people who gossiped to avoid any emotions, I worked hard in school and job recruiting to seem successful. If you look at my social media or LinkedIn, you would think that I was happy. Based on the whole ~crying in public~ thing, it is clear that I am not happy. I don’t eat the food I take pictures of, I feel alone in those friendships, and I have intense imposters syndrome. I’m not happy. It feels shameful for other people to know this, to see behind the perfect mask that I have crafted. Ironically, and it has taken a lot of public tears to see this, I feel more free without the mask. The right people actually want to know how I’m doing, my grades don’t fall apart when I take a deep breath, and recovery seems that much more possible when I actually recognize that I’m not there yet. I feel a bit light and a bit happier every time those tears stream down my face. I’m crying because I’m sad, because I’m scared, because I feel lost, because life is fucking hard. I’m crying because I’m human, and that reality scares me a lot. I’m also crying because I’m trying, because I’m hopeful, because I’m relieved, because I’m unafraid to feel. I’m crying because I’m human, and that’s a hell of a lot better than the mask that keeps it all together. I’m crying in public, and that’s okay.
e Wh h en t
The weather on Monday made me feel unzipped. I rolled down the window in the car and let the undercurrent of cold air hit my face. The whole thing made me feel lonely, but in a way that I could stand. It made me feel like something was about to happen, like some great sadness or John Hughes monologue, like falling in love or running a red light. I told my friend the other day that stoplights are as tall as us, but we don’t notice, because of the perspective. “Is that true?” she asked. I wasn’t sure. I thought I had seen a photo once: colors on a screen, a glare on the glass of my laptop. Not real, not always true. I’ve learned how to tell when my parents are lying to me: the rises and falls in their voice like watching a needle on a polygraph. I tell my mom it’s going to be okay. Is that true? I’m never sure. The needle goes crazy and I’m left with spasmed mountainsides, an ink spill. One night, over FaceTime, I asked her what movie she was watching. She told me several bullet points about it, including that it was not very good, but not including the title––that, she couldn’t remember. As she checked the screen for more information, the blue light of the television flashed on her upturned face. It looked as though she was suddenly caught in a lightning storm––rain coming in off the coast, or the dry heat lightning that’s tied to Texas summers. There’s a trepidation about running through sprinklers that I always felt as a kid. Blades of grass would cling itchy and undeterred to our bug-bitten ankles. Clothes would get wet––and then what? We sit in the sun like sliced fruit, sweet, almost rotten, waiting for whatever was’s next. Lately, I’ve been writing down things I see. Soft purple coming in through my window, a string of lights, imitation stars. I don’t understand constellations, but pretend like I do. You’re such a Taurus, someone will say to me. And it makes me feel better, knowing that this brokenness was written in the cosmos, that my mess is coded into the deep blackness of space. I took videos this week, like I was writing things down but lazier. A cat walking endlessly across a fence––Philippe Petit but less impressive. The neon sign of the pancake house: Open 24 Hours, dark, Open 24 Hours, dark. Buzzing red in a dirty parking lot. Jordan had picked me up. “Don’t look at how much sugar I’m putting on this.” Buttered grits, snow falling on sand. I watched her anyway. by Elizabeth Cregan
on emotional manipulation On going to work with a hickey the size of a golf ball on the side of your neck: Context—I work in a bakery and my boss is a sexist, conservative, middle-aged man who once explained to me how to count to the number 14. Imagine the look on his face at the realization that his 20-year-old “bakery girl” has a sex life, eyes wide, mute horror. Sexist boss man manages to close his mouth and is silent for the rest of the day. I thought I used enough concealer to cover it, dulled it from angry red to fading bruise blue. But I’m sure I’m not imagining the lingering gazes of customers— hard to use ponytailed hair as a shield. They notice, and immediately condemn. And my feminism tells me I want to wash off all the concealer, feminism tells me that shame makes me weak, compliant, submissive and I want to walk around without embarrassment and I want to make this about empowerment, but then I remember your hands, my body tensing under your fingers, the bruises left out of “love” on my thighs and shoulders, split lip, unrestrained teeth— I didn’t tell you to stop, couldn’t find the voice to say “there, not there, no,” too fast, too sudden, too new. And you don’t genuinely apologize when I ask you to take it easy, say you don’t think you can, say you’re proud of the claw marks you leave behind. Most likely intended as a compliment but perceived as unwillingness to listen when I say no and telling me you love me so much that you can’t control what you do to my body sounds a lot like masking possession with desire.
by Sienna Brancato And this is what happens when you don’t teach girls about their own bodies, teach them to say no but not how to correct, ignore the complexities, the blurring lines and so you grow up basically clueless until you find yourself in a relationship, anxious and terrified and willing and even more clueless and slightly unnerved that they seem to know your anatomy better than you do, or at least they’re not afraid of it, and you feel grateful. Somehow they know the secret to you. You don’t have to figure it out for yourself anymore! And that’s so appealing, until it’s not. Good girl, sexy girl, adventurous girl, proper, pliant girl, sexualized, exoticized, our silence is romanticized, and you say I’m the sun in a dark world, and the movies tell me I’m supposed to eat that shit up, but you can’t fuck your way out of chemical depression, and you can’t use me to do it anymore Manipulation and toxicity often fly under the radar of abuse, sly and cunning, avoiding detection by friends and family. It’s not until a stranger asks me if I’m okay that I realize to break shame is to name. Not submissive, but subversive. And maybe this is about empowerment, whatever that looks like. And I remember what my body is capable of, all by itself, and even though I no longer care about you, I care about myself, so this is me speaking up.
“Her” by Layla Gorgoni
TURMERIC by Shraeya Madhu
Honey, what do I drink? Is it sweet venom under my tongue? As much as I wanted to spit it out, that’s easier said than done. A sunshine latte, warmth and spice liquid happiness sitting heavy in my stomach like my mother’s advice. I used to pour it down my American sink because I’ve never really liked milk and I’ve always been weak for temptation. Resistance to what is mine has never been my fixation. Next time I leave this city and go back home I will drink a mug of turmeric milk from which I have grown.
by Audrey Etro
I. It’s me, Ms. Tri-racial. II. Your perfect Petri dish of colonized and colonizer, plus some occidental tones for you, a scientist, to make a new discovery. by Stephanie Leow III. Hello, I am not your choose-yourown-adventure just because I may look like ] XI. My apologies that it’s confusing for you to approach my whatever you please (or whatever you hate); I white house with its black roof and shutters, filled with the told you what I am, three times actually, and no I scent of my mother’s chow mein, to hear my parents don’t mind you asking but I do mind you arguing speak in accents that you can’t match to anything I just with me (about me). named, but it probably shouldn’t surprise you that IV. And, yes, it stings a bit when you assure me that I’m people can be mixed in the U.S. XII. To complain about my 30% privilege is white (or __ or __ or __) because I have lived my entire probably an evil within itself. I’m sorry. life until now trying to straighten my hair and lighten my XIII. But I’m not sorry that I like too much pictures to match 70% of my hometown’s population, to not “white music” or “dance white” or don’t listen be known as the “other,” to have my friends’ little sisters call to enough Drake or whatever. I didn’t realize me by my name and not “the tan one.” I have lived my entire life that Ed Sheeran could snatch the color out trying to be a part of a community that I am not a part of, only to find that now the communities of color tell me that I belong to the of my skin. XIV. My mother once told me that it prior one (or any one that is not theirs). may be easier to just tell people that V. Yes, some Hispanic people are mixed. No, that does not mean I’m I’m Asian, to give a half answer Hispanic. instead of a whole, to claim my VI. And if he shows interest because he thinks I’m a light-skin, does that not father instead of her, but I know make me just as culpable as the men who look past my dark-skinned sisters? she only suggested this familial VII. I never asked to be your colorism pawn. blasphemy because she, too, VIII.“You’re part __? You don’t look __.” Okay, and? knows that people prefer one IX. So now I need to drag myself across the world to prove to you that my family answer over two or three. didn’t lose our ancestors’ cultures, even though we did, but what does that entail? You XV. Sure, exotic can be a want me to speak a word of Mandarin, or wear Indian garments, or listen to rap music, compliment, but not or dance rumba, or pretend my family has always enjoyed a Thanksgiving meal because when you say it like that. if I do not wear a tidbit from your dense idea of culture on my wrist, then I must actually XVI. Everyone is an be this or that or nothing at all. anthropologist X. Why is my identity suddenly contingent upon how you see me? nowadays. 55
don't take up too much space not with your body or your mind that space is reserved if you don't mind of course you don't sweetheart, honey we are the ones that make the money your mind is full of only what you need how to make us happy, how to help us succeed by being pretty, of course the purest breed to display to our friends you exist as the means to our ends perfect girlfriends into perfect wives all of you confined to your houses like bees to their hives except bees bow to a queen isn't that funny, honey? the queen controls all of their lives that hardly seems fair women in power are rare this is for a reason, of course i'll spare you the discourse because you have so much to do cooking, cleaning, looking after the kids you hardly have time to listen to all of that nonsense you're perfectly happy, my little worker bee friends, friends, come and see! watch how she buzzes about on command following my every demand the queen is dead, long live the king!
by Jaden Kielty
by Isabella Cantillano-Sanchez
Pencil Skirts I bought my first pencil skirt when I was 11 at Forever21 with money I had made selling friendship bracelets at school, and as I walked home from the mall I could hardly contain myself. Middle school girls in Miami wore one of two outfits from the years of 2009-2011: crop tops, jean booty shorts, and Converse for casual hangouts, and crop tops, pencil skirts, and stilettos to parties--a product of the hypersexualization of young girls and the utter plasticity of my city. Considering it was middle school, my will to fit in and suppress any originality in the form of style was stronger than ever. To be a perfect little clone of the other girls; surely that would end the crushing insecurities that accompany puberty. I got home that day and tried on the skirt, adding a pair of black heels for good measure, and strutted around in a haze of happiness, only to face my mother at the bottom of the stairs. Quítate esa puta falda Alexandra. Where did you even get that? Everyone else wears them. You’re not everyone else. Do you think Myles Edmunds looks the same as you in that skirt? I’m not having the other mothers call me and tell me how much of a whore you look at the next bar mitzvah. I won’t say it again. Take it off. ____________________________________________________ I learned to hate my body. Cover up, wear something looser, that’s too low cut. That dress is super puta. Don’t give them the wrong idea. It’s too unprofessional. You want your primos to see you in that? People like to say “puberty was kind” to them. Was puberty kind to me? Causing my hips to widen, my breasts to swell, my features to gain a certain sensuality so unnatural for an 11-year-old girl? Among a sea of prepubescent middle schoolers, I stood out like a sore thumb. I heard she’s a C cup. That’s the only reason Nick Gomez even likes her. She kissed him with tongue I heard. Whore. Mr. DiPacci flirts with her all the time in class, don’t you notice it too? She definitely likes it. Don’t you think she flirts back? I saw her eating lunch with Sophie’s boyfriend today. Sophie’s pissed. Such a slut. ____________________________________________________ At 21 there are too many things I wish I could tell my 11-year-old self, but mostly, I just want to hug her. Hold her. Stroke her hair and tell her she’s wrong. One day she’s going to unlearn the hatred. She doesn’t just have thick thighs, bigger breasts, wider shoulders; she is. She is her body. She is strong. She kicks everyone’s ass in the mile in gym. She lifts more than all the girls in her boat, and it shows in her 2k scores. She is compassionate. It manifests in her body language as she listens intently to her friends' problems and provides cariños and cosquillas. She is mature. It’s hard for her to understand that maturity for her age isn’t always bad. Maturity means old Cuban construction workers mistaking her for someone older (but certainly not someone of consenting age) shouting Oye mamita pasa por acá. But it also means she is impressionable. Her parent’s friends take her seriously. The way she tilts her head holds their gaze and responds to their inquiries only after careful thought. They remember her. As she grows older and begins to hold her own in with her parents and peers, at team dinners or family gatherings, her maturity leaves the adults in the room wondering, Wow. That Alex. Her body isn’t a nuisance. It isn’t holding her back. It’s not an object she must carry with her from room to room. It’s her’s. It’s her. by Alexandra Schlesinger
Wrapped in the same gray blanket, I sit in the many-windowed room in the house on N street, and read. Surrounded by gray light and shifting trees, the sound of rustling leaves makes its way into the fibers of carpet on the floor. These days alone in this house have taken shape in a wide way. The expansive architecture leaves room for large thoughtswand lounging, sprawling my body out across the floor, scattering papers, a pencil, my computer, and a few books. Here for a few moments only. Its emptiness and high ceilings are enjoyable, employing an essentialism missing from my nomadic life. These walls do not pretend to be what they are not. I decorate instead with my imagination. Dreaming my memories into the heights of the ceiling, stringing the future above the table like fairy lights. A place where reality strikes my perception of reality, a middle zone where lie the bare bones of beauty. It is here that I dream of floating in blackness and staring at the spaces between stars.
A History in the Present Moment
The skies begin in a torrent of rain, startling me from my floating reverie beside the boat. My head half submerged in salt water, sweet droplets of rain entering my mouth. I shake my head and look up to see Andi basking in the sudden downpour. A short, gleeful sound escapes from his throat, cutting through the sheets of water like a spear into the darkened sky. I imagine Andi –– mischievous and darting –– though I have met him only once before. I keep his serious smile and manner beneath my wing, if writers have wings, for the future. The both of us live now and only in adventure. It began alone and in a mansion, but I must not forget the essence of bodies that begin to move around dinner time. I move among them, welcoming the sense of others into my solitary days. We are all young enough though less in love with life than we might have been. We are an assortment of chance, a happening of fate brought together by the house on N street. Jack juggles a can of chicken noodle soup while Harper concentrates on the chopping of an onion, lost in this act, in a recipe. Charles smokes weed in the living room, opening his mouth to exhale and let only smart things escape. I see Laura sitting at the kitchen table reading yet another article about the education system in southern Kenya. Amelia bumps loudly into each of us on her way. I pull myself up onto the swimming dock of the boat, and tackle Andi on the slippery surface of the water proof padding. We nearly slide off the boat, but he catches the metal bar at the edge that reaches up to the canopy of cloth shading the rest of the deck from the rain. I run to the kitchenette beneath this dry awning, grab the blue bottle of soap, and start pouring its contents onto the wet surface of the swim deck’s padding. He watches me, knowing that I am a crazy person and that he asked me here anyways, then slides on his stomach, face first through the foam and into the water like a madman. It is often that I sit alone in the house on N and dream, or cry. I can be found, too, in the living room among friends, watching the bachelorette. Even hosting a party every now and then. I dream often of the future, glaring out the window into the summer heat, while swaddling myself against the air conditioning. I pretend that it is a crisp, autumn day. Immersed in these dreams, I wrap myself in a warm cocoon of excitement. At times I feel a contentment in being here. I think also of nothing. Andi sent me a message, and I came across the ocean. I imagine that I can see the shore of the North American continent to the west. It is there that the house on N shines brightly in my memory, strung with thoughts and dreams and ghosts. Here, the only visible lights shine down from the sky, and we glide through the still night, leaving a ripple in the mirror of the universe. It is our only mark upon these waters. The sounds here are the shoreline: vowels roll up like waves and crash upon the rocks. Dubrovnik. Kesten s krilima. I listen only to capture these notes, the music in them. Sometimes they trickle through the air from afar, sometimes they crash upon my ear drums. There are many minerals in these reverberations of the sea. The house on N contains many hidden noises in her floors and ceilings, though the carpet blurs their signatures and changes them into the footsteps of monsters at night. There is a ghost that lives in the creaking of the third floor bathroom, beneath the attic, and a mouse that scavenges the dish soap beneath the kitchen sink. These great spaces have tuned my ear to fainter sounds. I lean forward and crouch towards the television against the murmur of cheerful voices in the background. While I lounge on the now dry padding of the swim deck, looking up at the stars, I think of the house on N. Its inhabitants and spaces, the stream of movement ebbing and flowing and receding once more. The dreams and memories absorbed into its carpets and walls. History of a kind. Someone once told me that ghosts are only those haunting their own memories. Perhaps the ghost occupying the third floor bathroom is me, gazing far into the future, haunting the floating blackness that mirrors the spaces between stars.
It is midnight, and I can see clearly the deep blue of the sheets within the wooden cabin of the boat, the wrinkles in them. Neither here nor there, I think how strangely the imagination dreams these colors.
by Emily Arnold
Stagnant It went by so quickly that I remember timeâ€™s passage. As if every day, and at the end of each day The great trials of the human experiment Were the only awareness of my own mortality. The lucky ones who get to cope with this information Push life to a maximum pace to experience it now; All the traveling All the romances All the ambition. Surely this all could not be a moment of life Not everyone goes through this metaphysical wonderment. I, remaining in the shadow of comfort, No contemplation of the anticipation and the fear of life and death, I am still. But wait until I break. by Nickie Demakos
building my body “You can’t remove my scars or rewrite the past that haunts me / Just hold me tight and tell me everything’s going to be okay.” Michael Faudet, Smoke & Mirrors What happens when the mind you’ve always relied on—the one that kept you sane, grounded, and safe—fails you? When mania, depression, anxiety rear their ugly heads? These intangible, all-consuming, ever-present forces debilitate the one part of you that’s ever been able to bring you peace, no matter what is happening outside of your perfect, little internal world you’ve constructed, protected and treasured within your head. 2 years ago, the perfect, little internal world I created for myself inside my own head failed me. I found myself spiraling. Spiraling to a place I thought I could never climb out of. I wanted nothing more than to escape this mind that was attacking itself— attacking me. I tried my hardest to cut that channel. Cut the cord on the mind that turned on me, made me see a version of myself I had never known, never thought I could know. I asked myself: How would I make it out of this? Did I even have the power to make it out of this? Then there was my body. As ever-present as my mind, but somehow less noticeable to me. It carried me from place to place, got me up in the morning to fight the fight I didn’t even know I was trying to fight. It was my body that pulled me out of the hole I was falling into hard and fast—and at some points willingly? It’s funny how we (or maybe it’s just me?) can indulge in our pain, as if in some messed-up way it brings us comfort. Hit rock bottom? Great, can’t get any worse than this. Oh, the world is the way it is for us because of our gender, our sexuality, our race, our class, our every identity we embody? How can we change that? But something inside me, something outside me, something inside us, something outside us fights our fight, fought our fight, will continue to fight our fight. Our bodies, our physical selves. Battered, beaten, broken, seemingly powerless and not our own, our bodies push forward. Without knowing it, my body worked to repair the damage my mind had done, regain the power and safety my mind had lost. My body spoke for me when my mind couldn’t form the words, just as the bodies of all the women that came before me have, the ones that stand with me are, and the ones that follow will. It is because of my body—its subtle, yet insurmountable strength—that I write today. And this is true of women all over the world who navigate their way through the chaos of their internal and external worlds alone and together. I will probably always fight my internal battle—all of us will. And although, “we is not a foundation but what we are working toward,” (Ahmed 2) we feminists continue to push for our right to claim our identities proudly especially in the face of those that deny us that right. What I also learned about my body on this journey was that my body unconsciously gravitated toward other bodies on similar journeys. And what these spectacular bodies taught me is that the “scars” I wish to “remove” from my body make it what it is; my past that’s “written” on me pushes my body to speak louder, demand more. Held tight by these bodies, more settled in my own, I finally know that “everything’s going to be okay.” by Emily Quatroche
“Rainbow Nude” by Caleigh Andrews
Shrink Parent No. 1 by Taylor Kahn-Perry
My mother sends emails in bright blue Comic Sans and naps on park benches in the middle of the Magic Kingdom. She crafts collages at the start of each month. For birthdays, she gifts clementines and greeting cards the whole family signs. She gave herself an office of windows when we renovated our house. She’s fifty-six and asks God why she still gets her period. We blame it on me, and we laugh. My mother cries when she gets too many mosquito bites or I bring home ice cream and she finishes it before I do; my aunt says this is the happiest she’s ever seen my mother. The baby before me was a miscarriage and when my mother and I fight, I wonder if she thinks about that child. Not in a cruel way--I wonder if she thinks the way we do when we’re young and picturing our kids in our heads, how bright they’ll be, how beautiful, how like ourselves they will scare us into change.
Hemispheres by Taylor Kahn-Perry
I was fourteen when I first learned how to fold my body in half, tuck my chin between my knees and stretch my shoulder blades away from one another, like if I could pull them far enough apart my body would snap, send me in two directions: my left side lists, chalkboards, showers; my right shoulder so far away I wouldn’t check over it to see who watched me tap my right heel, cross my right toes, bounce.
slinking to corners each time I enter a room, something reassuring about being able to finger the crease where two walls touch. The painter spent extra time so it could look seamless: stitched together without thread like the cupid’s bow of a lover’s smile. I want to be one of those people who can live without staring at the inside of their head. Stretch my palms out wide and hit clouds and lift my knees and run for miles
my right knee. Sometimes when I’m tired I practice driving with only my right hand and for a moment, I let go of being in control: see my knuckles twitch, my tongue pull itself to the back of my throat, like if the air stopped coming in for just a second, I might remember how to be scared. My spine aligns the two poles of my body as I inhale; my lungs swell. I lose my balance. I find myself.
and never wonder where the brain went (if it would survive outer space?). I wish I could sit still for a moment and hear silence and watch movement slow. Ears plugged. Mind sedated, like a drowning girl in a lake, shoulders far away from chin. A plastic neck that can stretch without snapping. Tiny waves a horizon line for the body: head in the clouds but knees sprawled outwards as fish bite the edges of ankles.
artwork by Layla Gorgoni
Verdigris is that musky stain on once beautiful copper. It permeates so profusely into metal, And grows so vibrant in light That it will not allow you to forget, Nor think of it as finite. The ubiquity of its blues Uniquely decorates the eye. Hundreds of hues merge, And with that, they simply mystify. Some deem it disfiguring, Some wash away the waves, But these individuals neglect That this blemish is brave. The shine is now subdued, The coat is now course. Antiquity polishes the metal with grace, And metal and tarnish finally end this race. The metal is my body. The tarnish is me. We coalesce as one. I am Verdigris.
th w o r G
by Ali Enrigh
s i r g i Ve r d
by Nickie Dem
Work Work in in Progress Progress
by Allison Herr
“Who I Want to Be” I want ocean hair that cascades with waterfalls And eyes that sparkle with dew covered grass bathed in a sunrise I want skin soft as the clouds The color of rain. I want fiery hair to rival the bright burning sun And eyes full of comets in the night sky I want skin patterned with the galaxy Speckled with stars. “Who I Am” I want sunset skies for hair of periwinkle and pink Nervous / Self-assured And eyes of the last kiss of sun The oppositions never end I want skin with summer breeze Proud / Modest Full of movement and relief. I want hair of white untouched snow with the sparkle of light But no word alone defines Hopeful / Cynical And eyes as blue as deep ice It’s a mess inside I want skin of the trees laden with snow Unsure / Argumentative Thick and strong. But it’s beautiful I want hair of late spring foliage ruffling in the wind Demanding / Passive And eyes of life and wet fertile soil I am no two-dimensional I want skin of watery sunlight Talkative / Private Filtered through clouds. Being of anyone’s creation I want the hair I have. Loving / Angry And eyes as the ones I have I have more face[t]s I want skin tan from my heritage Independent / Reliant Acne scars and all. Than you can count Antisocial / Outgoing I want to be so many things I am jagged, just like I want to be I think I might lose me. Real / Superficial But what is there to lose? “Me”? More shards and slivers What is that? Dramatic / Calm The way I look? The way I feel? Than a shattered mirror Am I only me because of the eyes I see Rude / Polite “Who I Was” Through? Or is me And even harder I don’t remember. The essence of identity… Wise / Foolish There are no snapshots to see …but why then To put back together No real clear timeline This attachment to physicality? Nostalgic / Momentary It happens when you sleep It shouldn’t matter how I look My pieces don’t Before you know it Especially Naïve / Mature and never, never Because I want more. Fit anymore when you want it. Why can’t I be Selfless / Selfish I imagine she was painfully naïve A cloud of aura? Because I am ever-changing Perhaps more self-assured A shapeless being Empowered / Weakened But assuredly close-minded. Changing infinitely So full of oxymorons It’s all still speculation… This world, this life, this body Wild / Tame So I can only hope Restrains it all I am no two-dimensional To have grown So much that I can’t even define 67 Being! Oh, so subliminally. Me.
by Layla Gorgoni
(Un)healthy Relationship by Sophie Septoff I was in the car on the way home from the eye doctor with my parents, who had just revealed to an admittedly fragile fourteen-year-old that driving would never happen without some huge medical miracle. My heart was breaking because I lived in a place surrounded by able-bodied teens, where driving,\ not just any car but the fanciest car, is the one and only way to fit in. My insides were ripping apart at the thought of never being able to drive my children to school, having grown up with the goal of being the best mother, just like my mom was to me. But mostly, I focused on the inside of my mouth. I was bleeding because I was biting down so hard to keep myself from letting tears roll down my face. I knew my parents were watching me in the rearview mirror. After having their two perfect sons, Lisa and Steven Septoff got the daughter they had been dreaming of—but she was far from perfect. By the way my parents would talk about the first few months when they discovered something was “wrong” with me, and then the years they spent traveling to meet with doctors around the country, who tortured me with tests and my parents with contradicting messages, I knew that they had experienced an incredible amount of fear and pain on my account. Back in the car, I looked at my mom and thought about what it must have been like to hold her screaming daughter while the doctors stuck objects in her eyes and probed her head. I bit down harder on my mouth because I did not want to cause more pain than I already had. It’s not that my parents ever tried to make me feel like a burden. In fact, my parents wanted more than anything to do the right thing for me. For the first six years of my life, I was treated like I was “normal.” My parents did not even tell me that I had a disability because they wanted me to feel like everyone else. I guess it was easy to hide it from me back then, when everyone needed help from their parents with reading books and ordering at restaurants. My brothers teased and picked on me mercilessly, like any other older siblings. I thought every other child on the planet had to go to the same eye doctors’ appointments and walk around with a patch on their more sighted eye for days at a time. I thought every other child could not read street signs if their life depended on it. I thought I was normal. This may have been a good way for me to enjoy my childhood, in blissful ignorance of my reality. But when I inevitably did begin to register the fact that I had a severe visual impairment, all I felt was shame. I desperately wanted to go back to being that “normal” girl because that is who I thought my parents wanted me to be. Though their intention was to shelter me, all I could feel was that they wanted a “normal” daughter for as long as possible. Once I felt disabled, I spent all of my time making decisions based on what I thought would cause my parents the least amount of stress and strain. I felt like my very existence did that enough on its own. I learned through experience what kinds of things I needed to shelter my parents from. In elementary school, whenever a teacher would forget an accomodation of mine, I would tell my mom. She would cry, apologize, call the school, fight with the school, etc. I felt like the worst person in the world for making her deal with that. By middle school, I would avoid telling my parents at all by telling my teachers, who would either make a huge deal about feeling bad for me or make me feel like I should kiss their feet for taking up their time. Inevitably, my parents would find out when I ended up crying in the school counselor’s office. By high school, my close friends had to force me to tell anyone when something was not accessible to me because I was so terrified of being a burden to the school and to my parents. I did not understand it. I got incredible grades. I got awards for leadership and arts and academics. I danced for ten hours a week at least. I was kind to anyone I met. I was so empathetic I would cry at commercials. I did everything I was supposed to do. I was supposed to be my parents’ dream—the perfectly “normal” girl. I prayed night after night for a surgery or a drug or a piece of technology or a miracle because I wanted to be who I thought my parents wanted me to be. My parents, being the intuitive people they are, noticed that I was becoming less and less myself during my junior year of high school. I had lost a considerable amount of weight from not eating. I had panic attacks whenever someone made a joke about my vision or a teacher missed an accommodation, which was often. I took on an absurd number of projects like choreographing an entire musical while preparing for my ACTs. I practically stopped talking or stating my opinion. I thought it did not matter what I said or did because I did not matter. I was not what my parents wanted, and I could not change that, no matter how hard I tried. When my mom forced me to go to therapy against my will, she saved my life. I had been lead down a path of depression and anxiety and anorexia because of how I felt about myself. I had years of anecdotes and grievances to explore on my own and with my parents. Rebuilding our relationship from its foundation took time, honesty, and work. Reflecting on my relationship with my parents, I have found that disability can cause an unhealthy relationship with one’s caretakers. Caretakers, especially the initial ones, are the absolute most important influence in the life of a person with a disability. How that caretaker acts will shape the course of the disabled person’s life for better or for worse. Because I thought my parents felt shame for me and wanted me to be someone “normal,” even though that was not their intention at all, I went on a path towards huge mental health issues tied to my feelings about my impairment. In a case like mine, where the caretakers are also parents, that relationship can set an unhealthy precedent for other relationships. When I stopped speaking up about my accommodations and speaking altogether, I was projecting my desire to not be a burden to my parents onto everyone else in my life. The relationship also infected my feelings towards myself in a dangerous way. I genuinely believed I was worthless for a period in my life because I was not the “normal” daughter I thought they wanted. These relationships can also become healthy, through hard work and communication. My time in family therapy with my parents during my junior and senior year of high school and my time since have taught me that rebuilding caretaker relationships in a healthy way can lead to productive partnerships. I now think of my parents as my biggest supporters and feel completely comfortable talking to them about issues that surround my vision because we took real time out of our lives to have hard conversations and restart our relationship.
A Hollywood Rom Com by Laurie-Maude Chenard
“I never knew…I never knew…you could hold moonlight in your hands…’til the night I held you.” -ariana grande the first time you kissed me, you broke my mirror. I should’ve known you were bad luck. long after you’d left, when you stole my first kiss, and my second, and my third, I was left with the shards of my reflection, feeling like any cut I could get from stepping on these crystals was worth every second of your embrace. like every hour of sleep I lost to live in a world with you was worth living a dream in real life. no one ever tells you that when you’re living out your greatest dreams reality is a hard snooze button. that the problem with highs is that they’re always followed by lows and i’m worried that i’ll fall into a hole of my own making deeper, deeper, deeper into you.
broken mirrors & moonlight by Natalie Chaudhuri
long before you left, my desk was full of clutter. I told you it was because I like to have one area of my life that’s a mess and everything else so put together. after you kissed me I cleaned my desk, straightened every knickknack and scented the room with linen. unfortunately, you can’t be organized so easily. no one ever told me you were a shooting star something i’d only find once in a millennia, something that could disappear when the sun came back up. long before you sailed back to space, we whispered under the moon’s embrace. I said that we were great friends. that it wasn’t a compliment, it was a fact. you said that I was beautiful. that it wasn’t a compliment, it was a fact. but I wanted to tell you—because I don’t think anyone ever told you—that I might be in love with you and that that’s not a compliment. it’s a fact. maybe broken mirrors aren’t so unlucky after all. I said that we were great friends. that it wasn’t a compliment, it was a fact. you said that I was beautiful. that it wasn’t a compliment, it was a fact. but I wanted to tell you—because I don’t think anyone ever told you—that I might be in love with you and that that’s not a compliment. it’s a fact. maybe broken mirrors aren’t so unlucky after all.
by Ivana Gabriele-Smith
I suppose I had nothing to long for before I peeled back home’s protective petals that used to curl around me softly.
Oh, melancholy indulgence, heavy like fruit bending the branches of a gingko tree to the earth floor– painfully pungent, sickly sweet– you are blissful!
Sucking on dizzying of her, I melt into nectar, sweet ambrosia in the night. Euphoria weighs me down inside and does not satisfy my homesickness but only soaks it in more syrupy desire.
I feel deep longing... By deep longing, I mean homesickness, homesickness, as vast as the ocean. I ache for the time preceding Desire.
Bondage of Apathy artwork by Chelsea Luo
If Only God Knew by Jade Ferguson
She sits on the edge of her balcony ready to jump into the unknown Shivering fingers holding knife to skin Heart strings pulled like bloody curtains over her eyes Blinded by the pain Burned by the anger rushing like fire through her coarse veins Legs hanging like tree branches, arms drooping like wet hair Clouds breaking into perpetual darkness Pill bottles scattered across her bedroom floor Clock ticking, time ending She takes a deep breath If god only knew… If god only knew her tears stained the pillows every night like an eternal ocean flooding her bedroom If god only knew that the hands of death were reaching out farther and farther into her body, choking the whispers from her throat, covering her dark blue lips and shoving daggers into the red feathers of what once made up her back If god only knew that the wings she once wore were now mere puddles of melted snow, tinted with the color of blood and smell of despair If god only knew that every time she looked in the mirror, there was a battered skeleton staring back at her If god only knew that she was taught to nod and agree even if it meant that with each lie, each fake smile, she was cracking the blood stained glass of her empty soul If god only knew that she wasn’t kidding, that her classmates sharp whispers of “slut” and “whore” and “easy” were louder than the screams of car tires screeching against the gravel road If god only knew that when she said no, she meant it, that when his rough hands kissed her skin and scalp, her heart was busy breaking in half, that when he pushed his body on top of her, she couldn’t breathe Maybe, just maybe, she was a slut, she was a whore, maybe she deserved to be raped It’s all my fault...It’s all my fault...IT’S ALL MY FAULT...she screamed If god only knew that she could feel his coarse fingertips painting her skin like a child unable to color in between the lines If god only knew that the weight of his heavy body pushed down into her small hips locking her into an almost immovable position and his dark eyes stared down at her like those of a ravenous tiger brushing his paw against the dirt reading to pounce on his prey She enjoyed it a little, she guessed. She was pleasing him, right? So, it was fine. Everything was fine, she told herself. Maybe no really meant yes and silence really meant consent. No. Stop. Put your pants back on. But, there was no response. He was no longer looking at her, his eyes were like daggers targeting her skin and his body was moving to carefully place himself before the inside of her Why didn’t he listen? Could he not hear her? Was she not loud enough? Did the power of his body outweigh her voice, diluting the sound of her words to mere whispers or flutters of the wings of a caged bird lost in translation? No!….Now, she wasn’t a person. She was just the dirty whore everyone set her out to be Shards of stained bloody glass laying on the floor of his room, her body was ripped apart like strings of raw meat If god only knew that her murder also meant her salvation, that she was living a hell on earth, that every night she was one railing, one let go and one blink from her fatal emancipation If god only knew that she was tired of wearing her mask of falsehoods, that she was tired of painting her skin with a smile and an “of course, I’m okay,” or “no I’m not crying” If god only knew that maybe he didnt know her at all. That maybe all he knew was that he didnt know...that he couldn’t know. He could never know. He could never know what it felt like to wake up every morning to shadows and sore red eyes He could never know what it felt like to be trapped in a man’s room, skin exposed and heart ripped open. He could never know what it felt like that night to speak but have no voice heard, to struggle beneath the boy’s clutches and pray that he would stop and put his clothes back on Maybe if god knew, he would understand that sometimes, it can hurt more to live than it is to die, that it stings more to breathe than to hold your breath. If god only knew, oh if god only knew, that maybe he knew nothing about her at all
The Biology of Opression by Kelly Goonan Some disclaimers before diving in: This is NOT a scientific research paper. There will be no painfully long latin words in italics. I am a white female, and have not experienced oppression in my lifetime. I do not intend to speak for any oppressed person or tell their story; I only want to share some things I find interesting. Everyone who experiences oppression and trauma experiences it differently. This is not meant to tell anyone how or what they are feeling. Epigenetics is the study of changes in DNA caused by reversible modifications to gene expression, or in simpler terms,the ability of an organism to pass down lived experience genetically, generation to generation. The field of epigenetics has grown immensely in recent years. The word itself may have “genetics” in it, but the implications of this area of study reach far beyond the scientific realm. Though epigenetics may be useful in explaining why certain populations of people are able to live at higher altitudes with lower oxygen, I find the social applications of epigenetics to be far more compelling, as studies have shown that the effects of lived experiences, such as trauma or oppression, can be passed down genetically. This opens up an entirely new forum for discussion, as this finding confirms that “social” issues such as oppression or abuse can have adverse effects outside the social realm, even in one’s own DNA. I believe that a short crash course on epigenetics would prove beneficial, especially in a time when musical artists claim that “slavery is a choice” while others continue to victim-blame. Here are some recent findings in the field of epigenetics. Descendants of Holocaust survivors have differences in their stress hormones, which predisposes these individuals for anxiety disorders or PTSD.1 African Americans are often more vulnerable to treatable diseases such as cancer or mental health disorders due to elevated levels of cortisone, the “fight or flight” hormone. 2 The increased stress hormone levels in both of these populations can alter the body’s physiological responses to stress in order to adapt to stressors for a longer time and at a higher rate. These instances give scientific proof to a phenomenon that oppressed populations have known to be true: the oppression of a certain population over an extended period of time negatively affects the physical health of not only the oppressed, but their descendants as well. The effects of oppression go deeper than the societal issues of race and religious discrimination; they penetrate the very genetic makeup of the oppressed and alter their DNA for generations to come. Oppression can no longer be brushed off as a strictly societal issue, the effects of which can be fixed with a change of mindset or social revolution. Oppression is written in individuals’ DNA, forever a part of their bodies and a constant reminder that their oppressors, past and present, have permanently altered their lives on a genetic level. It is important for non-oppressed communities to recognize the added burdens that historically oppressed individuals must cope with on a daily basis, for it helps to check our privilege and recognize the mistakes of our ancestors. These findings regarding the long-lasting effects of abuse and oppression will hopefully show society as a whole that it is more than just a social construct. Sources: 1. Rodriguez, Tori. “Descendants of Holocaust Survivors Have Altered Stress Hormones.” Scientific American, 1 Mar. 2015 Accessed 18 Feb. 2019. 2. Smith, Darron. “The Epigenetics of Being Black and Feeling Blue: Understanding African American Vulnerability to Disease.” Huff Post, 14 Oct. 2013. Accessed 18 Feb. 2019.
The Feminist Opression by Allison Herr
by Stella Cai
Whatâ€™s your favorite color? I like all colors I respond, because I want to be someone who loves all colors of the rainbow but the truth is I donâ€™t I will gladly paint my house a sunflower yellow but not a citrus orange there are seven(.5) billion people in the world for a reason if everyone was special if everyone deserved your time you would not have enough time to paint your house to be alone thatâ€™s why when lobsters fall in love they bind their claws together because rarely, rarely do they find each other and make it work
Love is a raccoon Only seen dead on the side of the road Looking in trash bags and finding more than in the stars A confession: I am obsessed with love Though I should not be I cannot stand its presence within four feet of me A girl too young and too unwilling chooses Ice over tea Distance over affection I left my corsage in your car One night does not equate to many days I cannot bear to see the petals rot Love is a smudge on a whiteboard It never comes off Ruins purity
lovely Scrutiny by Stephanie Leow
A realization: I love fantasies Because I can control them In reality I must give my heart to the wind A girl too green and too scared chooses Narrowed eyes over smiles Obsidian over diamonds I do not care if I can find love Between the petals of a rose I prefer irises Love is something I do not know It is an unanswered blank A lonely question mark A conclusion: God is love Like Him I cannot say love does not exist Yet I have never seen it face to face
A girl too ignorant and too stubborn chooses Words over touch Wonder over knowledge
I suppose flowers are equated to affection Because neither I have given nor received Except on graves for love lost and grieved
Col o r s
ar t w o r k b y P a ig
n bo r Ra
cy I o
E y l e l z A
The Female Orgasm
by Alexandra Schlesinger
Men have tried to deny female pleasure throughout history. Women aren’t miraculously hornier nowadays; there’s nothing in the water. Inside the panels of walls of broken down pre-colonial homes in America, archeologists have found wooden dildos dubbed by the time period as “he’s-at-homes.” Our grandmothers, our great grandmothers, their mothers before them; they weren’t “naturally demure”. They weren’t prudes. And they didn’t hate orgasms. Sex is for procreation, so let’s put her through nearly 30 years of childbearing because it feels so good--to him. Our grandmothers, great grandmothers, their mothers before them; They didn’t hate orgasms. They just couldn’t get them. Some of them waited for the first chance of privacy to touch themselves behind locked doors, since their husbands certainly weren’t doing anything about it; many of them met in secrecy with their fellow sexually-neglected housewives for late night pleasure sessions they could never dare speak of; some succumbed to societal pressures and just never masturbated at all. It’s now the twenty-first century and the world is finally starting to accept the not-so-groundbreaking reality that women--get this--also like to cum. When her boyfriend of years expects head, but still refuses to go down on her; when she’s expected to hit the bedroom showered, shaved, waxed, threaded, moisturized, sterilized before they can get freaky, but he can show up sweaty after sports practice because they’ve been taught that her pussy is dirty and his dick is immaculate; when he finishes every time, while she’s left woefully unfulfilled; when the foreplay is all about him; when she asks for oral and he lets her know he “doesn’t do that stuff ”; that’s the interpersonal and cultural denial of female pleasure. Stop talking about gender equality as a nebulous cloud of ideas that you can paint on a sign, and then call yourself a feminist. No social media hashtag will prove your commitment to those ideals in the bedroom. Drop your male entitlement at the door and take detailed notes on some “For her” porn. It’s 2019. Your girl deserves to cum too.
it’s 2019 and a woman finally just won a grammy for best rap album
by Nickie Demakos
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A U T O N O M Y
by Naomi Taher
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by Kelly Goonan
if you knew you held my heart in your hand what would you do? would you speak more delicately? tread more carefully? care more expressively? if you knew you had the power to destroy me what would you do? would you strengthen me? water me? nourish me?
I walked by a body it was th I thought about how we ar even though we are far
I wanted t but I didnâ€™t because I was
You remind m The quiet in and like the stablenes that keeps my l
Your arms encom the ocean makes up and you make u 82
The fact that we sha is helping me to that we are
or would you get drunk off of the power and clench your fist around my heart just to prove that you could? would you shrink from the responsibility of tending to my soul?
of water yesterday; he ocean. re sharing the same ocean, r away from each other.
what would you do if you knew i loved you?
Ocean by Ariel Kurtz
to sit by it, t have time s running late.
me of the ocean: out of the waves, ss of your breath lungs standing.
mpass the ocean: p most of the world up most of mine.
are the same ocean o remind myself e still close.
e d r t ay s e Y by Stella C ai
uard g f f e r e t w o ca u g h the fl ers ow d ro wne d y b an a r m y o f snow
by Stella Cai
the flowers were caught off guard drowned by an army of snow do you think they remember how yesterday they bloomed
w o h r e b m e rem y e ink th t h ou y o d yesterday they b lo omed
r hen to wege d Groe e aIz zy
by Mayeesha Galiba
Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un the words my Ammu exclaims when she accidentally drops something the words my Ammu exclaims when my Nana dies When a mug is dropped And a crash is heard I’m immediately chastised Because I didn’t say Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un within a millisecond maybe if I had somehow someway the mug wouldn’t have shattered maybe i would’ve found my lost car keys if I whispered it under my breath feverishly as my hands searched for something that seemed gone forever The words come immediately for my Ammu But they take some time for me sometimes so much time that she’s gone and it’s the next day or week or year until my mouth finally catches up and my voice is found why couldn’t it have surfaced in the millisecond the mug is in the air and my mother is already mourning My nana died last week And it feels like my dreams die a little bit every day As I fight the shaking of my leg or the shortness of my breath caused by the panic in my chest in my heart somewhere I can’t even fucking reach My moments of clarity are short and fleeting the thin shavings of time when wool is pulled over my eyes and I only see darkness before it’s pulled away to the light or blinking, as others call it Ma, what if I can’t hold onto my sanity long enough to say Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un? Ma, don’t be mad Don’t scorn the earth Don’t blame this country Don’t push me further away Ma, I’m confused, and I’m scared Of the mug falling Of Nana dying Of my breath shaking The sound of the crash paralyzes me with fear with every crack etched in my heart what happens to the mug after it shatters? what happens to us after we die? Ma, will I go to Jannah? Even though Jahanam is all I heard about growing up? Ma, will Nana go to Paradise? Can we visit him? Will Nani be there too? I’m scared of the ground of the box of the unknown Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un We surely belong to Allah and unto Him we shall return Ma, make sure my “If found, return to” tag gives the Angels detailed directions to our Creator He might not have me on Find My Friends Ma, I’m scared of being lost forever.
strangers with their painted faces red noses, red wigs faux freckles and too-pink cheeks turned up in a smile laughing as they turn rubber and helium into life the dark cloak of night hiding the best-kept secrets of the day lit only by my night light in the corner illuminating my room and protecting from danger
the fear of speaking? using the voice i was so graciously gifted? this was new. my body froze, hands trembled,
by Kelly Goonan
these were my fears childish, perhaps, but simple easily identified (easily averted) but this was new
insects crawling up my spine eight spindly black legs taunting me with their malicious fangs injecting me with their poison
choking on unspoken words clogging my sinuses forcing droplets of water from my eyes begging for a way out and as i stared at you through my frosted glass eyes blurry, but somehow crystal clear the words finally came out i love you
artwork by Audrey Etro
It began with a slice of lemon.
by Emma Burns
“You know, you don’t have to feed me a lemon to kiss me,” he said. Ohh. Were we flirting? He wasn’t gay? Suddenly, it made sense. Him pulling me onto the dance floor. Him saying, “We don’t need them to have fun,” about my friends that we left in another part of the club. Him buying me a shot of vodka, which Polish bartenders serve like tequila: with a slice of lemon. Which brings me to this moment, this split second of retrospective understanding that happened after I put the lemon in his mouth. The surprise and confusion and understanding all flashed across my face like the lights of this underground corner of Krakow. And then he kissed me. I wish I could remember more of the following hours, but the blurriness is part of their charm. It’s become part of the myth of our love. Love. Isn’t that a bit too much? After all, we’ve only known each other for three days. My friend had wanted to kiss Tom. Tom, that’s the name of the lemon slice boy. She was the one who met him first, the one who put herself out there. “FUCK YOU!” she said to him, after she saw us together. “FUCK YOU for not kissing ME.” I didn’t know any of this at the time—that she wanted to kiss him, that he wanted to kiss me, that she confronted him about kissing me. I was in a drunken bliss, thriving off of the 192-proof Spirytus someone poured down my throat when I came into the club. Entirely unaware of this controversy, I danced with Tom. We shared cigarettes in a damp doorway tucked in some corner of a historic square. Later, we would admit to only remembering half of our conversations, but during those precious nighttime hours, everything we said was exactly the right thing to say. We all know this story, right? Boy meets girl, boy and girl get drunk, boy falls for girl. Where is the girl in that? Did she fall in love too? How does she feel about the boy’s feelings for her? In my case, girl did not fall in love. Girl didn’t know how she felt about boy’s feelings and just swept them under that all-encompassing banner of An Abroad Experience. When the lemon slice boy messaged me, I put off replying. This was too much attachment on his part. I’d had a good time last night, yes, but that’s all. And yet here we are, months later. And I’m still talking to the lemon slice boy. To Tom. We send each other music. We listen to each other’s favorite songs, analyzing the lyrical expressions that speak to our conjoined hearts. I go on and on about art, he complains about work. I study, whiling away the hours of my life in sunlight-flooded coffee shops. He does drugs, talking to other girls about me in an MDMX-induced haze. He tells me this. I don’t know how to feel about it. Occasionally I pass someone on the street and get a whiff of cigarette smoke, its tobacco musk reminding me of the taste of his cool lips. He has pretty lips. Some nights, I lie alone in bed and imagine those bittersweet lips pressed against my neck. Sometimes this makes me happy. Other times, it just makes me lonely. He is coming to America, he says. He already visited me abroad. Now he’s 10,000 miles away. He lives in the future; I lag sixteen hours behind his every move. I want to go to Australia, I want to visit him, I tell myself. I really think I do. But there’s always some excuse: my mother wouldn’t dare let me, plane tickets are too expensive. “Just save for the flight,” he says. “I’ll take care of the rest when you’re here.” But what will that mean, being “here”? Surrounded by his friends with their foreign accents. Surrounded by drinks and drugs in a strange city. Surrounded by lives lived across the world, entirely opposite from my own. It scares me enough that I let these excuses stop me from ever truly entertaining the thought of buying a plane ticket. Our conversation comes easier now, like it does when you’ve known someone for a long time. My friends know to ask about him: “And how’s Tom?” they add when we gossip, our silly attempt to wax poetic on modern love. “Are you exclusive?” one friend asks. I laugh. You can’t be exclusive from 10,000 miles away. Right? I fully expect Tom to come to America. It’s not just for me; he says wants to live and work in the city he loved far before he knew it was mine. I’m already imagining how I’ll bring him home at Thanksgiving, my Australian boyfriend who moved across the world to craft overpriced cocktails while I sequester myself in some dusty corner of the library, caught up in the feminist implications of my schoolwork. He told me once he wanted to have a real Thanksgiving feast, with Americans. This is what he wants. This is what he’s wanted since he was eighteen. I tell myself these things. “But what do you actually want to do in America?” I ask him one day, as if to reassure myself that this future has even the slightest chance of becoming a reality. “You mean, besides you?” He laughs. My laughter, in response, is tinged with a slight hint of—what is this? Discomfort at my own selfish dream for us? Fear that we’re reading too much into some future? Confusion that I could be enough for a person to move across the world? When I say something about the Thanksgiving dream during our last phone call, he laughs. This time, it’s his laughter that’s nervous, marred by something uncomfortable to the both of us. “I don’t know about that…” His thought drifts off into something neither of us have truly confronted yet. We aren’t together. Physically or emotionally. We know this. We aren’t crazyin love or otherwise. My only religious conviction is that Everything Happens For A Reason—so maybe we are soulmates. But maybe only for 72 hours. If it weren’t for Facebook Messenger, of all things, it would have been just that. Perhaps even less. Maybe we would have only had that one night, that first night. To him, it would have been a missed connection, a love lost. To me, it would have been a haze of half-remembered lemon-flavored kisses.
I would have eventually forgotten the lemon slice boy. Would that make it any less beautiful, me forgetting it all? Is love made beautiful by its physical happening, or by memory of the emotions? I think it’s the memory. Because I do remember Tom. And he says he’s coming to America.
I can’t stop you walk down the street and feel endless eyes piercing . making me cringe. my skin crawl away. my heart race faster to catch my feet.
because what if I don’t. what if he’s there when I don’t. if the one time I don’t is the one time he’s there. waiting for me.
STOP.. LOOK BACK. again again again.
it has happened before. over and over and over. in sweaty dark clubs while music blairs from hidden speakers. forcing me to rely on strangers. random groups of women. to hide me from you. the fear pouring from my neck is not random. It happens for a reason. YOU. YOU’RE THE REASON. you. who held my hand. who carried me home. who made me laugh so hard I cried. who offered bigger and bigger hugs every time I saw you. who made me feel safe. who brushed away hairs from my face and tears from my eyes. I heard about you.. from incredible women who could barely choke out the words. of what you did to girls just like me.
if I can’t stop you . who loves me. how can I stop him?. who just sees me an ass to grab on the way to the bar.
by Sophie Septoff
but why why WHY. am I lucky?. it could have been me. I was in your reach. I couldn’t have stopped you. I can’t stop you.
What You N ~for anyone that has lost~ The End
ever Said [E
All you remember is nothing. You felt nothing when it happened. “Are you still in love with me?” you ask him, even though the words taste as gross in your mouth as they sound. You hate clichés as much as he does, but even though you hate to admit it, your relationship has become one. Good thing you both love irony. “A part of me doesn’t know if I want to be in a committed relationship for my college experience,” he says. “It’s not my feelings toward you that have changed. It’s my feelings toward the future.” “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” you yell, but only in your head. Before you can respond, he goes on about the uncertainty he feels about what’s to come. How it’s terrifying because he’s so young, and everything is so real. That he doesn’t want to prescribe a life to himself that he might regret later on. Anyone else hearing this would think you had just asked his 19-year-old ass for his hand in marriage. He thinks he’s the only one that’s fucking scared. “So this is about you wanting to be with other people?” you reply, finally. Your words sound monotonous, like you were just asking him what he had for dinner last night. “No, it’s not like that,” he tells you. “I just think I need to know who I am first, before I can fully commit myself to someone else.” More clichés. “Yeah. I understand,” you say. And that was that. What else can you say, really? You aren’t one to fight for something that is slipping away. You both used to joke about breaking up for silly reasons—because you aren’t as punctual as he, because he put too much sriracha on everything, because your dogs hate each other. When it actually happens though, it feels like another one of your jokes. The laughter just doesn’t come this time. Maybe the greatest tragedy isn’t so much the breakup itself as how pitiful of an affair it is. Some yelling, tears, and maybe even a hurled metal object would have been a more appropriate demise to a relationship as real as yours, or so you thought. Your final interaction is akin to a sterile handshake concluding a business conference. Pathetic.
Music is all you can really listen to since you last saw him. You spend hours on Spotify, knowing he is too. You used to make playlists for each other, about each other, so music has always been a glimpse into your lives. It’s the only glance you get now, so don’t blink.
“You know,” you tell your roommate, “this isn’t actually that hard.” “What is?” she asks. “The breakup,” you say. “I haven’t felt devastated or anything like that. I mean, yeah, I miss him and all, but I thought I’d be in pieces. You know?” She looks at you hard. “That’s really good, dude,” she tells you. “I think you know deep inside that you can do better.” “You’re wrong,” you think. There’s still a voice in your head that tells you that it’s not over yet. How could it be? “Nothing comes to an end if there’s hope.” Or at least that’s what you ou remember reading from a fortune cookie last summer. You think about it a lot.
3 months, and a bit. You finally understand what it means to sit in the shower.
You thought things would get easier with time, but recovery isn’t a straight line, or whatever it is they say. At this point, the numbness has worn off and all you can feel is the gaping hole. You stare at the last text he ever sent before going to sleep and you entertain the possibility of texting him “hi.” You don’t.
You could never understand those sappy Christmas movies about single people whining about being alone. “It’s fucking Christmas!” you would think. But maybe you get it now. This is the first December you’ve felt loneliness like this. It feels like pretty much everyone in college is out to find love, but goddammit, not you. You were never one to look for love; you always wanted love to find you. A lazy roadmap for happiness, and the fucker is taking its sweet time too. To top everything off, all you get for Christmas is a pair of gloves, and even this reminds you of him.
“You have such small hands,” he used to say. “Baby hands.” He would crack himself up, amused by the abnormal size of your fingers and palm. “Do cups, like, fall out sometimes when you’re holding them?” And off he’d go again. You remember he would hold them to his face and kiss them, one finger at a time. “They’re so cute,” he’d chuckle after reaching the pinkie. “Baby hands.”
“Happy 6-month breakup-aversary!” Your roommate smiles as she rolls over in bed. You both lean over and stick your hands out to high five each other from bed. Sometimes your humorously cramped freshman dorm can actually be a good thing. You laugh as your fingers touch. “Half a year, and we’re still counting. Doesn’t that say something against our progress?” you respond.
Your friends stop asking you how you are, as if by the nine month mark, you should be done. And maybe you should. You know you aren’t though. The memories don’t go away, really. They fade in and out, like the waft of weed as you walk down Prospect sometimes. You remember the first time it was said, or written, rather. He wrote it in a book you treasure, almost as if to parallel the importance of the three words being uttered for the first time. You opened the cover, and it was there staring up at you. You don’t really remember all the things you felt, but you know you felt panic. How could you say it back without your words losing meaning? As if you were merely throwing back the three words like the way gravity reacts on a seesaw. You rummaged through your wallet and pulled it out: a bubble gum wrapper with “I love you” scribbled on the crinkled surface. You wanted him to know. You needed him to know you meant it as much as he did; that you didn’t write the date on purpose because of how fast you felt it scared you. You needed him to know you were scared too.
“So are you still in love with him?” The question catches you off guard when she asks. “No,” you say. “I don’t think I am anymore.” Your roommate raises her eyebrows. “No, really. Things feel different now.”
1 year and a bit, who’s counting?
Being out of love doesn’t meant it won’t hurt if you see him with another girl. And you tell yourself that’s okay. “One of my favorite things about fall,” you say, “is how the air feels lighter. Crisp.” You’re walking with some people you care about, fists dug deep into the pockets of your jacket. The wind blows just as you’re turning the corner, and all of a sudden, you remember. The cold weather takes you back. You remember sitting on a bench listening to Phoebe Bridger’s “Motion Sickness” on repeat. And your heart clenches, just enough to remind you that it happened. Maybe this is as good as it’ll get.
T - always
Maybe this is as good as you want it to get.
r a De f l se
It’s Valentine’s Day, and I want to apologize for not giving you love this year. I’ve looked far and wide for it:, I’ve hung out with shitty people just to not feel alone, I’ve asked those I love for reassurance, I’ve even coined “words of affirmation” as my love language, but I have not given you any love. I’m sorry.
I’m sorry that I’ve allowed you to feel alone when your heart is hurting (especially when it’s broken like it is right now). I’m sorry that I’ve starved you, that I’ve made you stop listening to your body for so long that you don’t even know what a normal meal is or what it feels like to be hungry. I’m sorry that I’ve isolated you, that I’ve pushed some of the people you care about most away by making you deceitful and unrecognizable. I’m sorry that I’ve robbed you of your brain power, that I’ve cut off your access to nutrients and made school feel useless. I’m sorry that I’ve associated you with shitty people, that I’ve tried to convince you how little you matter to those around you. I’m sorry that I’ve fed you with lies about how unimportant, insignificant, and unlovable you are. I’m sorry that I’ve let the voices in your head drown out the reality you live in— - that you are enough just the way you are. I’m sorry.
I can’t make up for the past (as much as I may want to), and I cannot control whether you will recover your bone density, your heart functioning, and your fractured relationships, but I can promise you this: I’m going to start fighting for you. I’m going to start seeing you for who you are rather than who your ED wants you to see. I’m going to start giving you validation because it’s true. I’m going to start nourishing you because you deserve to be healthy. I’m going to start respecting you because you deserve good people in your life. I’m going to start loving you because you deserve to be loved. I’m sorry, and I promise I’m going to love you so much always.
e v Lo y e n d y S
Apology Letter to Myself by Sydney te Wildt
artwork by Ninna del Cid
HOROSCOPES if your sign was a spring haiku
you made time your friend passion for independence mars made you honest
amidst just beauty there is no point in choosing whisper to the moon
strong for the sake of winter’s harm, but now you can lie without resistance
intuitively flow with the grass tomorrow you are allowed to grow
go ahead tonight without wit, or even care fill your vase to bloom
blind ambitions for that you know of wandering but without patience
let your emotions plant seeds for summer as you don’t know who’ll tend them
plan for tomorrow glimpse of spontaneity then kiss without fear
being fierce right now you do not have to look back you are everything
finger tips tingling with existential questions in this horizon
dance under Venus perfection doen’t quite get as close to you as this 94
mid afternoon rain closed eyes daydream of blooming your sensitive strength
Whatever your sun sign may be, we hope that spring semester brought you a little bit more insight into how incredibly brilliant you are.
ISAAC CHARLES NELLY KENNY CECILIA RUTHY PATRICK LETTY CORNELIUS FRANCIS SUSAN GEORGE ISAAC KITTY AUSTIN ISAAC ELIAS SALLY NED RACHAEL SIMON ANDERSON LOUISA NED BILLY NELLY PATRICK CHARLES QUEEN SALLY NANCY MARGARET DAVID ELIZA MARTHA HARRIET SARAH ANNE NELLY JOSEPH KITTY MARY SAM ELIZABETH POLLY SALLY WILLIAM MARY ANNE ROBERT HENRY HARRIET ELIZABETH IASAIS MARY ELLEN JOHN NANCY ADOLF HENRIETTA HARIET ANN RICHARD NANCY MARGERY LEN
MINTY NANCY MARY JARVIS JAMES TOM BILL ELIZA REVIDY NOBEL EDWARD WILLIAM REGIS MARIA MARIA WILLIAM CHARLES BENEDICT LEN SAM JOHN JOHN GEORGE LEN DANIEL NACE BERNARD WILLIAM TOM JIM HENNY FRANCIS STEPHEN ANNY BETSY MATILDA KITTY MARGARET CRISSY CELESTIA HENNY LOUISA TERESIA MARY MARY GINNY HARRY DINA JOE ESTHER BILL PETER STEPHEN SARAH BIBIANA MARY BETTY BENNETT SUSAN PRISCILLA PERRY
JARRED ROSE ANNE CHARLOTTE MARY JULIA ANNE DICK GREENFIELD JAMES FERDINAND SYLVESTER CHRISTINA HARIET EMILIANA ELEONOR MARY SUSANNA RITTA REMUS MILLEY LUCY ANN LUCINA DINA PEG ALEXIUS UNNAMED CHILD UNNAMED CHILD NACE NACE BIBY SUCKEY BRIDGE CAROLINE BASIL MARTHA ANNE GABE BIBY HENRY THOMAS MARY UNNAMED CHILD HENNY EMELINE AMANDA ELIZABETH BILLY BIBY HARIET ROBERT MARY ABRAHAM ROBERT JAMES BRIDGET MARY JANE SUSAN SALLY ANNE NELLY MARTHA JEMMY BETSY
Without their story, we wouldnâ€™t be able to tell ours. #StudentsforGU272
CHARLES UNNAMED CHILD UNNAMED CHILD BILL REGIS PHIL NELLY LOUIS GUSTY GEORGE JOSEPH HARRY ANNY HARRY GABE DANIEL LOUISA BETSY BANEY LUCINDA GREENFIELD DANIEL BILL WATT TERESA FRANK SAM RACHAEL ALEXANDER CHARLOTTE EMILINE WATT UNNAMED CHILD DICK ADELINE MATT GINNY CATHERINE UNNAMED CHILD NELLY ELIZA REGIS KITTY PETER JOHN MICHAEL NED SALLY ALEXIUS HENRY FREDERICK GINNY UNNAMED CHILD ZEKE NATHAN HENNY JAMES ABRAHAM CLAIRE AUSTIN 95
Bossier Magazine is an intersectional feminist ‘zine dedicated to promoting the work of all hidden or marginalized voices, featuring work fr...